Bullet

Description:

SUBJECT: Bollett, Joseph Andrew
Fifteen year-old white human maleCAPSULE: Subject lost his mother shortly after childbirth. He was raised by his father until 7 February 39, when his father Andrew Bollett was killed while trying to intervene in the beating death of a neighborhood Troll child. Subject witnessed this occurring. Lone Star responding officers notified CPS, who took custody of subject.IMPRESSIONS: Subject has suffered severe emotional trauma, but preliminary interviews and psychological evaluations indicate remarkable stability regardless. RECCOMENDATION: Subject will enter the Foster Care Program and should be placed with a family as soon as possible.

JUDGEWINSLOW: Mr. Bollett, I wish I didn’t know you by name so readily. You have been before this court so many times that I spend more time with you than with my own family. You are what we refer to as a problem case, Mr. Bollett. Up until now, you’ve managed to skate by without anything serious sticking to you. Petty vandalism, chronic truancy, minor shoplifting… all these low level offenses you have accumulated up to now trouble me, but in the grand scheme of things, given the state of the world, none of them made me lose hope in you. But this… this might be too much. Assault and battery, malicious wounding, and grand theft auto. All in one night. What are we going to do with you, Mr. Bollett? That was not a rhetorical question, son. I want you to answer me.

BOLLETT: I don’t know, sir.

JUDGEWINSLOW: Think about it. What do you think we should do with you? Is it safe for us to let you roam the streets?

BOLLETT: Yes, sir. This won’t ever happen again.

JUDGEWINSLOW: I’m not so sure about that, Mr. Bollett. So I don’t agree! And I’m sure Mr. Takeshi, whom you robbed, stabbed, and put in the hospital, doesn’t agree either!

BOLLETT: I’m not the one who stabbed him, though!

JUDGEWINSLOW: Quiet, Mr. Bollett. We’ve been through that. You did nothing to stop the stabbing, and you actively participated in beating Mr. Takeshi and stealing his car. You are as guilty as the one who held the knife, and you know it. You should just thank your lucky stars that Mr. Takeshi is alive, otherwise you’d be tried for murder as an adult, and you’d be before Judge Thomas across the building. Judge Thomas doesn’t like to crowd the jails with murderers, if you understand my meaning. So once again, I ask you. What do you think we should do with you?

BOLLETT: (Mumbles)

JUDGEWINSLOW: Speak up, son.

BOLLETT: You’ll send me to jail.

JUDGEWINSLOW: That would make sense now, wouldn’t it? It would get you off the streets and out of my hair, and I’m sure that’s what more than a few people would like to see, too. But that isn’t what I’m going to do. For starters, you don’t turn eighteen until September. But more importantly, I don’t think jail is what you need, son. I’ve seen you in and out of this court for two years now, and I know your history better than you know it yourself. Incarceration is not the answer, and is not what you need.

BOLLETT: Thank you, sir.

JUDGEWINSLOW: Don’t thank me yet, I’m not finished. As I said, what you need isn’t incarceration, it’s discipline. Firm discipline. And I know exactly where you can get it. And, with the cooperation of your case workers from CPS and the Foster Care Program, I am authorized to give you this option. You are too old to send to military school, but with waivers, you are old enough for the real deal. So you now have a choice, Mr. Bollett. If you think jail is the best thing for you, then we can surely accommodate you. But if you think there is something inside you worth preserving, something that will keep you off the chopping block, so to speak, then instead of leaving here today in the custody of the bailiffs, you can leave in the company of Staff Sergeant Jones of the UCAS Metroplex Guard. What do you say, son?

As you know, Echo Company just finished their tour through the Urban Combat Simulator last week. 83 out of 95 personnel completed the course satisfactorily, but one individual achieved remarkably high marks and showed extreme proficiency in grasping and utilizing urban tactics. Private First Class Joseph Bollett consistently scored at or near the top of the class, and on at least one occasion set a facility record for exercise completion in accuracy and speed. PFC Bollett has expressed an interest in duty at the UCS, and Captain Kohl at the simulator mentioned to me personally that he would love the chance to have someone like PFC Bollett on staff for OPFOR and training assistance. PFC Bollett’s current billet is in the 3rd Battalion armory, and while we still need him there, with your permission I will assign him a rotating schedule that will put him at the UCS under Captain Kohl’s command three days out of the week. If after a few months that seems to be working out and we can find replacement personnel at the armory, we can revisit the idea and see if a more permanent arrangement can be ironed out.

MEMBERFOREPERSON: We have, sir. (Master at Arms retrieves findings and gives it to the Court)

COLONELGIANELLI: Corporal Bollett, please rise. On the specifications of theft and unauthorized sale of military property, the members find the accused guilty as charged. On the specification of corruption and bribery, the members find the accused guilty as charged. On the specification of conduct unbecoming a soldier in the United Canadian and American States Army, the members find the accused guilty as charged. Corporal Bollett, do you have anything final to say on your behalf? (Corporal Bollett remains silent) Corporal Bollett, five years ago, Judge Winslow gave you an opportunity to better yourself. For five years, it seemed as if you were making good on that. But for five years, you have had us all fooled. And now, we see what could have been a promising career fall to ashes. I wonder if you have any idea where the weapons you sold could eventually end up. Someday, perhaps you will find yourself on the other end of one of those rifles, wielded by a street gang member. There would be some poetic justice in that wouldn’t there? Corporal, since you have consistently refused to cooperate with this Court Martial by revealing the identities of your co-conspirators in this affair, I have no choice but to apply the full measure of authority in your sentencing. You are hereby sentenced to spend a term of not less than five years hard physical labor confined to the Fort Lewis Military Stockade, and you are ordered to be dishonorably discharged from the United Canadian and American States Army. This Court Martial is adjourned.

MAJORHEALY: Prisoner Bollett, it is the decision and finding of this hearing that while you were physically responsible for the deaths of prisoners Jolie and Rauscher, your actions were justified by reason of self-defense. It has been amply demonstrated that prisoners Jolie and Rauscher intended to ambush you with makeshift weapons, that it was their intent to kill you, and that you had no choice but to defend yourself with lethal result. Your cooperative conduct after the incident has been taken into account in this affair. Do you wish to say anything for the record?

PRISONERBOLLETT: No, sir.

MAJORHEALY: Then there will be no disciplinary action taken against you at this time, and the charges of 2nd degree manslaughter are hereby dropped. For your own protection, under agreement with the Tacoma District Department of Corrections, I’m going to arrange for you to be transferred from the Fort Lewis Military Stockade to the Silcox Island Correctional Facility to complete your term of incarceration.

PRISONERBOLLETT: If it’s all the same sir, I’d rather stay here.

MAJORHEALY: Really? Listen, Joseph. Jolie and Rauscher were not the only representatives we have here from the Humanis Policlub. They’ve labeled you as a metahuman sympathizer, and you’ve killed two of their number. Maybe they’ll think twice about trying again for you soon, but try again they will, and they’ll send a lot more than two Joe-boys with shivs after you. I don’t think it’s a smart idea to stay.

PRISONERBOLLETT: Major, I’d really prefer to stay. If I have any say in it at all, that is.

MAJORHEALY: It’s your funeral.

>>>End Excerpted Data<<<

Bio:

It’s cold tonight. Cold and rainy. Typical Metroplex weather. Tonight marks two years that I’m a free man. I stretch as much as I can under my jacket without spilling it open, and pull the collar a little tighter. Not much of a line to get into the Mixer tonight. I guess people don’t like to wait in line outside when it’s like this. Cold, wet, and smelly. The wind is coming off the Sound and blowing the Tacoma Aroma all the way into Renton. Smells like acetone mixed with shit, lit on fire. Burns my nostrils when I breathe, but I’m long used to that. Chickie glides up to me, her wet hair clinging to her forehead. She hands me her stick. I slot it in the reader. Barbara Smith, 23, from Everett. There’s a twinge in the top of the readout. A glitch, maybe? No, it’s a fault. The ID’s no good. I look her over. She looks like she could be 23, but she might also be 17. So much body work out there these days, it gets hard to tell sometimes. She smiles. I don’t. She stops smiling.
“Sorry, chickie. Not tonight.” I hand her stick back and put the reader away. “Barbara” turns and walks away, calling me some horrible name under her breath. I don’t care, I been called worse, by better. The Mixer’d probably eat her up, anyhow. I look back at the line. Short, only four more people. Knucklehead comes up, grins. I look up. He’s got his stick ready, so I slot it. Joe Armorall. Cool name. ID’s good, but for the name alone, I let him in. He gives a rebel yell like a jackass when I pull the velvet rope aside, and in he goes. He’ll probably end the night face down in something… either snatch or his own sick. Either way, he’ll have fun. I almost envy him.
Next guy comes up. Skinhead. I don’t like him already. He hands me his stick, but I don’t take it. The back of his hand has a Humanis emblem tattooed on it. I look him over, up and down, looking for trouble. Looks like he forgot to pack this morning before leaving the house. Or he’s really good at hiding things. Could be either. But he’s not getting into my joint. “My” joint. The Mixer ain’t mine, really, but as long as I’m working the door it may as well be.
“Blow.” Just one word, and a look that could burn concrete. Half of me hopes he gets the message, because I’m under the awning and I don’t want to get up. The other half hopes he does something stupid, because there is nothing I like better than cracking Policlub heads open on the ferrocrete.
“What the fuck? Slot my ID and let me in, asshole.”
“Yeah, that’s a sure way to get me on your side. I said blow.”
“No way. I’m in there tonight, and I’m getting my party on.”
“Last time. Blow.”
“Eat shit.” He tries to muscle past me. I feel the twitch as the booster chemicals pop. One hand flashes out and grabs his left ear. He squeals. The other hand grabs the rim of my sitting stool as I get to my feet. His head comes down backwards, his body a second after. He hits the sidewalk on his back and makes a puffy sound as all his air escapes his lungs. The stool comes up and comes back down over his neck and chest. He’s pinned to the ground, choking. I sit down on the stool, 120 kilos keeping him in his place. Whole thing takes four seconds. Two people left in line, but one of them doesn’t like the mess and walks off. The other one makes a move for his waistband. Scumbag and Chuckles, the guy I’m sitting on, appear to be a team. Scumbag’s hand goes for whatever he’s going for, and so does mine. I’m quicker. Before he can clear his belt, he’s staring down a Taurus Multi-6. I thumb the hammer so he can watch the cylinder advance, proving that I’ve got large-type bullets in this thing that will make large-type holes in his face if he doesn’t get a whole lot smarter in a hurry. He gets smarter, and doesn’t move.
“Blow. Leave your piece.”
He thinks about it for a second.
“You want me to say it again? You can tell I don’t like repeating myself.”
He slowly pulls his piece, a Colt Asp pocket revolver, and puts it in my outstretched palm. I pocket it, then lower the hammer on my own cannon. I stand, take the stool off Chuckles’ throat.
“Now both of you. Blow. Do not come back.”
They blow. Chuckles pisses himself as he crosses the street in a hurry. Manager will probably have some words for me after my shift. “Keep your politics outta my club,” he’ll say. “Yessir, nossir, three bags full sir,” I’ll say. But I’ll keep doing it my way. I like this job, but it ain’t the be-all end-all of my existence. Pocket Secretary beeps at me. Screen says it’s Vince. Good old Vince. He never forgets that I didn’t roll on him, so he occasionally throws biz my way when he comes across something up my alley.
“Vinnie. What shakes.”
“Biz for the Bullet. You got time next week?”
“I can make time. Anything big?”
“Not really… just moving some stuff and need someone to walk with me, make sure it all goes nice-nice.”
“I’m solid. Just tell me when and where.”